


Espresso

by Oxygen



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Adoption, Fluff, M/M, Old Age, TLDR Cute Old Trans Junker Couple adopts equally rowdy Junker kid, Trans Character, Trans Junkrat, Trans Roadhog
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-02 20:23:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10952049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oxygen/pseuds/Oxygen
Summary: "Blegh, /bureaucracy/," Jamison would say. Why was it so hard just to give a bunch of kids cars and houses and a safe way out of the mess those bureaucrats created in the first place?A.K.A Junkrat and Roadhog want a kid, and by God, do they get a kid. Maybe even more than one. They also drink a lot of coffee.





	1. Intro

_Jamison is…_

Jamison hesitates before pouring milk into his coffee.

Mako looks from over the newspaper-- Headlines: Perth rebuilding efforts this, Cathay airplane crash that, _Jamison doesn’t forget how to make coffee._

Of course he didn’t. Jamison goes ahead and makes himself his morning cuppa after the little hiccup in time.

 

Jamison doesn’t steal glances either. That’s Mako’s thing. Mako is shy with his words, takes time picking them out like fresh strawberries in a field, and his eyes betray him after years of having a mask as a shield.

But he does. Jamison steals a glance when he makes his coffee, when Mako drives them both to the supermarket, when he’s writing the list for the supermarket, when they’re brushing their teeth before bed, when…

When he doesn’t speak.

 

Jamison’s a talker, but not this week.

_Jamison is quiet. Jamison is hesitating. Jamison is..._

 

In bed with him. They’re doing some light reading before they sleep, Mako with his large print book and Jamison with his tablet. The lamp on the nightstand casts a soft orange glow on the room, the plants on the shelves, hanging, upright, sleeping, cast and scatter shadows, and Jamison isn’t really on his tablet.

 

“J-”

“M-”

 

They stop and look each other in the eye. A laugh escapes Mako. Jamison follows, a little weaker.

“You first,” the big man concedes, a soft smile on his face. “Can tell you’ve got something on your mind.”

 

Jamison shuts the tablet off with a click. He looks ahead, looks at him, back into space, goes to speak, shuts his mouth, and just looks awfully frustrated with himself in an almost comical and childish way (for a near 40 year old.)

Comical, childish, unusually vulnerable. Jamison gulps. Last time he did that, he had Mako’s-- _Roadhog’s_ \-- hook around his waist and a shotgun to his head in a Junkertown bar.

 

“I want a kid,” Jamison blurts out.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

Ah. It all clicks together.

 

It’s not a terrible silence that overcomes them. Mako’s a quiet man, he takes his time choosing his words, even longer now at his age… and Jamison knows that. He doesn’t explode into a ramble about this and that and where and how and why and maybe and maybe not and _I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry_ , he just waits.

Mako wraps an arm around Jamison’s waist.

 

Mako is a quiet man. Mako is shy with his words. Repetitive, slow, intentional, Mako takes time picking them out like fresh strawberries in a field, like seashells on the beach, like the soft breeze in Mission Bay through his hair…

 

-

 

_She throws her bag on Mako’s bed, not aggressively, but with a sudden and newfound energy and vigor and excitement and-- and everything. She looks at him and there are pearls and oysters and boardwalks and breakfast to wake up to and a bed to go to sleep in every day and a life to look forward to in her eyes._

_She is his new sister. Vittoria Rutledge. Family brought her over from Australia out of an unsavory situation that he’d rather not belabor. They sit outside of the bayside cafe where she just had her first interview. Hired on the spot, essentially. Enthusiastic barista let her brew her own coffee already, laughs and says she’s going to get tired of making espressos soon. She says she’s not so sure._

 

_Vittoria, he says, Mako, she replies._

_Are you happy? Yeah._

_I’m glad._

_I’m glad too._

 

_She is his new sister, and she is like him in many ways. Her words are few but meaningful even in her excitement, relief, shock, anger, or despair. Her hair and skin is like his, dark, rich, their distinct yet overlapping heritages, skin that is for now mostly unmarred. She is timid until she isn’t, until she grabs the shotgun and goes out with Mako to--_

 

_She is unlike Mako in some ways. Most notably, she isn’t alive anymore. He can’t escape this thought, tries to frame it in a humorous way, just comes out bitter, just remembers their last moments fighting Omnics back to back in an Australian sandstorm._

_But that’s alright. She was alive, in fact lived longer because of his family’s big and accommodating and loving hearts. They were acquaintances, friends, the greatest of friends, a part of the family, and…_

 

-

 

“I’d like a kid too.”

Jamison perks up.

 

“Like to adopt one, reckon we don’t have more options at our… advanced ages and particular surgery choices.” They both get a chuckle out of that.

“And we’re ready. Got no bounties on our heads, plenty of connections, and more wealth than we’d ever use. Might as well help someone else go from where we started to where we are now, and maybe even further, without having to do all of the dumb shit we did along the way.”

 

_Empty stomachs. Parched mouths. Beds burned up in the fire, kitchen walls with height marks evacuated and demolished after the crisis. Soft hands now calloused, bigger, stronger, good for pistols and molotovs and not expendable test pencils. Burns, cuffs, blood, nails and hair ripped from the root, falling from the root, radiation, the explosion, piles of cash, piles of eyes, eyes all on them, for every reason, for every treasure._

 

_The oceans, the trains, the motels, hotels, the bike with the sidecar, the hedonism and rage and lust and the United Nations meeting they wheeled into after somehow committing an honorable deed with some stupid organization full of stupid heroes fighting for some stupid cause. The negotiations, the paperwork, the bureaucracy, the deal where we keep the cash and you get rid of the bounties, then we’ll hand over the treasure and promise not to cause too many explosions or accidental disembowelments and maybe help you from time to time._

 

“Wisely put.” Jamison says.

 

-

 

They reach out to Lena. Lena and her wife Emily adopted, and they adopted young-- it was the topic of the month at the base when Lena announced her maternity leave at 27 once the paperwork had gone through. Winston had known beforehand, of course, had planned months ahead for the absence of one of their most valuable agents, but more importantly, for the safety and wellbeing of a friend whose work should not intersect with her home life.

At the time, Junkrat and Roadhog weren’t on particularly friendly or unfriendly terms with Lena, but gave their congratulations (and in secret, lavish presents) anyway. Over time, they became comfortable acquaintances and now Lena enthusiastically told them about their options for some service and some other community and being foster parents first and so on and so on, but she conceded that she hasn’t kept up as much as she’s wanted to with adoption resources.

Instead, she sends them a website for an adoption/foster advocacy group. She says Torbjörn Lindholm started it, the Swedish engineer who helped Junkrat build his first prosthetic outside of Australia.

He passed away about five years ago, so she obviously can’t put them in contact with him. But the organization is more up to date on the specifics of adoption, and “Torb” (as she calls him) left plenty of personal musings on adopting at an older age that they might find useful or comforting.

 

She can also put them in contact with one of his daughters-- she assumed leadership position of the organization and has helped other members from Overwatch adopt or foster children.

Mako and Jamison agree.

 

-

 

They videochat about two weeks later, when the two really formalize that _this--_ fostering or adoption-- is something they want to do. The two come prepared with questions and answers-- _How much will this cost, where can we inquire about that, why should we do this, this is what we have at our disposal, what we’re prepared to do and why_ , and she’s equally prepared.

She answers enthusiastically and questions with a professional yet somehow friendly disposition. Her whole demeanor is lively, waving her hands around as she talks and her dreadlocks follow, grinning and laughing, pearly whites against red lipstick against skin dark like Mako’s, like...

 

Mako should mention her name is Vittoria Lindholm.

Funny how fate works.

 

She’s so thrilled with all of this, of their story of survival and success and maturity and hopes of giving others the opportunity they’ve had that she offers to fly out and meet them. They say, no, we’re flying _you_ out, and that’s how she ends up in their kitchen on a scorcher of a New Zealand summer day.

“Endearing place you’ve got,” Vittoria tells them as she wraps a more vinelike plant around her fingers.

“Hoggo here loves gardening, swear he’s trying to breed an Audrey III to eat me up so he can run off with my share of the wealth.” She laughs, miraculously understanding the ( _very_ ancient) reference. Jamison quickly clarifies that of course he’s kidding, they share their wealth and he wouldn’t let any plant eat him without putting up a fight.

They serve her a piccolo latte (true blue Aussie stuff) and get down to business. She tells them about global organizations for adoption-- namely, one her father helped run and that she is often in contact with-- a lot of the nitty-gritty information on domestic and international adoption, the different communities around the world in most need of parents or foster parents, and then about more local foster and adoption organizations. Mako tells her the world is their backyard, so having to stay local isn’t so much of a worry. She laughs warm-spiritedly again.

 

“That’s a good attitude to have, especially when you have the resources available for it. But,” she pauses.

 

“I bring it up because both of you have got a connection to the area. You know the struggles the Junker community in the Outback face, especially now as many of them try to transition into major cities on their own or through an aid organization.”

 

She pauses again.

 

“...and I think that really ties into your desires to help others who are in the situation you were in.”

  


 

 

 

That leaves them in awe, in shock, in… some kind of strange but wonderful emotion, like a _“Eureka!”_ moment. Of course!

  


 

 

Jamison and Mako are heavily involved in Junker aid organizations, but most of them are for local construction efforts and not adoption. Often, they “accidentally” left their wallets at Junkertown bars or “happened" to leave their cars back in Australia for one lucky kid. That’s what they told the aid organizations when they did their investigations, anyway.

"Blegh, _bureaucracy_ ," Jamison would say. Why was it so hard just to give a bunch of kids cars and houses and a safe way out of the mess those bureaucrats created in the first place?

 

Mako and Jamison had gotten a reputation for giving back to the community they came from. They held no grievances for how it had treated them while they lived there; everyone they knew is dead, and that’s beside the point-- now, as rich civvies, they owed it to Junkertown to give a shit. It had taken the United Nations this long to point a finger at the Australian government for displacing the people that would make up Junkertown during the Omnic Crisis after all.

There weren’t any aid organizations when they lived in Junkertown. Just a national stigma for the irritated bushies, a full-on global media blackout for the situation back in Australia, and scientists on covert operations to study the ruins of the blown omnium that irradiated the Outback.

That’s all different now. They’ve heard success stories of Junkers moving to South Korea to become superstar gamers, to America to become renowned chefs, to Brazil to aid the communities just breaking free from Vishkar’s grips, or just to Sydney to move in with a partner they couldn’t afford to move in with before. And often, when Mako and Jamison talked to the kids in the area after erecting a new school or hospital or water purifier, they did almost wish they could take one or ten home.

 

It wasn’t really what they were looking for then, though. And now, they had been so caught up with a world of opportunities that they never thought to look home.

That settles it. She puts them in contact with one of her associates working in a local branch, and they’re set to meet in two weeks time.

Meanwhile, the two decide to hit up some old spots for nostalgia’s sake. They pack their bags and catch the first flight out to Adelaide.

 

 **_First stop:_ ** _Eyre Crater, Australia._

  



	2. Anniversary

He’s not prone to fits of rage. Mako walks the sand and the cement with an even pace, the sizzling road with its odd cracks of bushy life and red dust and yellow paint going on and on and on with a roughed up but straightforward demeanor like his. The sun beats down on them, the sweat rolls down his back and splashes on the cement, and it’s fine.

But this is new.

The bar is quiet, the dust hanging in the air, exposed by small, green, ghastly gaslights. The bar is not just quiet, it’s empty, with the only residents being the bartender cleaning out a milkshake pitcher with an old white rag that’s gone gray and brown now. Her, and the two of them. 

Junkrat and Mako sit, tense, at each other, with eachother, it’s hard to tell anymore. It’s been a year since they had collided into eachother’s lives, like the melted metal and rubber of two old trucks on the Outback Highway.

It’s fine, Mako tells himself.

The bar has never had nightlife, not like a bar should. The bartender’s rag smells faintly of vodka and gasoline, like the mixture in the bottles that line the place. Her name is Jonnie, and this is her place. She falls asleep here, wakes up here, watches the sun rise and fall and the wind run across the sand from here. That milkshake pitcher is her favorite because she stole it from a bar in Sydney one fateful night.

The jukebox in the corner of the kitchen is dim, hasn’t been used in years, and the wood seems to be buckling underneath its weight if you let your imagination roam a bit. The driftwood stools are well worn, but their legs haven’t been broken after being smashed over an equally drunk opponent’s head. The floor is stained in odd places.

It’s fine.

If you gave it a fast glance on any other day of the year, it could pass as a good venue for drinks and uproar. It’s on the outskirts of Junkertown, and lights up at night sometimes, but many things are that way; for instance, Junkrat’s trailer, or a fuel cell outpost, or the grocer’s little joint which some people know to be the grocer's joint and others don’t know or care enough about. 

It’s fine. Jonnie cleans the pitcher out more than she’s cleaned it in the last few years, which will be good for when she moves into her new place.

The bar sign’s always been out there, though. _Enter here_ , says an arrow with old fluorescent lightbulbs on it. Thank God for Jonnie and her fascination with bars, because they’ll need it tonight.

_It’s fine._

“It’s fucking **FINE**!” Junkrat whispers harshly, to everyone, to no one, seething and red and sweating and teeth grinding and fuck fuck fuck he’s cold and clammy again. His insides twist up until they **SNAP** , with NO SATISFYING **END**. Someone’s put an x-ray to that man because Mako can see everything, and feel everything. 

But Mako’s angry too, confused, sorry, a bit understanding, but mostly angry. He’ll package the fire in his blood into neat, simple words, neat, simple blocks, blocks of marble, block of ice, and deal with them later when the kettle boils over. 

“Quit wringing yer hands,” Mako mumbles. He’s usually fine with Junkrat and his loud hands, but the clicking and the clacking of the green glove’s band on his red metal prosthesis is getting to Mako. Clink, clank, click, click, clank, and quiet. Junkrat gets it, so he stops for now.

That’s how they usually are. They get each other, they talk to each other, they don’t go running off and making deals with strangers for the treasure because the price was good, good enough for what seems to be an ill-equipped caravan of drunkards and fiends, and this imaginary guy who likes to make a lot of judgements reckoned Roadhog would definitely understand they could just kill, or at least severely mame, everyone and take the money.

It gives Mako a headache, but he gets it. He’s had a gun against his head and way too much rum in his system before, and he’s agreed to a lot of dumb shit that still makes him reel years later. But this? It’s ridiculous. Why would you act like this? Junkrat doesn’t even drink that much, he just talks too much sometimes.

He gets it, he really does, but he really, _really_ fucking wished Junkrat had put a harebrained plan like this in their rotation of antics for heists, instead of barreling into his room 3 hours before blastoff, paranoid of being overheard and sweating bullets down his ash covered forehead.

“We can do this,” Junkrat had promised, out of breath, eyes dancing and darting everywhere like the polyhedron in a Magic 8 Ball. He had called an old friend, could have the whole thing go down at her place, would be safer that way since she’s had experience in stuff like this. Junkrat draws things on a large roll of paper he keeps folded up in his backpack, less to illustrate anything, more to destress. 

“Once I’m out there performing, they won’t know a thing. Just do what you do best, Hoggie. Be genuine. Be you. Keep me in line when the time comes and keep the Hogdrogen on hand if it makes ya feel better.”

That’s easy for him to say, the fucker likes improv theatre! A least Mako’s got his mask, and some life insurance in the form of a canister, and they know they vibe well on the battlefield. But they’re supposed to pretend to hate each other as Junkrat puts it, y’know, get into a good squabble and then when the caravan least expects it, strike! Mako’s supposed to act betrayed, and maybe it’s a good thing he feels that way, but, fuck!

“Hog,” Junkrat ventures, bringing Mako back to the bar with the ghastly gas lights. His face is a pale shade of green, or blue, he can’t tell the color of the place anymore through his mask.

“Sorry.”

“I know,” Mako grunts, and shifts in his chair. “I’m sorry too.” 

Junkrat knows what he means. 

“One hell of an anniversary, isn’t this?” The man laughs, not his usual cackle, something sadder, quieter. Fiddles with the treasure, now strung around his neck in a makeshift necklace so he doesn’t drop it.

It’s a curious little thing, this microchip, aqua, glowing so bright it’s almost white. It stays alive with no battery, as if it were a mythical stone chiseled down into a thin plate. Junkrat found it in the ruins of the omnium, wasn’t entire sure _what_ it did, but was sure of its worth from the rumors and its looks. Its composition was too complex for Mako to keep in his head, but the precious metals and the engineering that powered it were what had attracted strangers to the omnium in the first place. Its contents were another story entirely.

It’s strange how people forget things. Granted, no one on the internet was keeping track of these things, but the omnicardium is the key to synthetic life, present in all omniums around the world, each location with its own special design. However, there was something wrong with this one. The omnics came out of it bloodthirsty and crazed, their twisted machinery bleeding over the landscape and anchoring into the earth. 

Incredibly effective, perhaps the most effective of its kind, but destructive. Makeshift cities sprung in the Outback, looking more like fallen airplanes or moored ships than a collection of buildings and people. They were foundries, like the large complexes that were the omniums, but more skeletal and ever devolving as whatever drove them to spill out of the heart corrupted even further.

It was frightening seeing these beasts take over the Outback, with some code-given mission to expand and make their horrible cities and mow everyone and everything in sight down. They got smarter, started attacking the cities on the coast that glimmered and attracted their hungry, hungry teeth and hungry, hungry foundries. 

But these weren’t hippie solar farmers from the Outback who could only watch as the omnics ate through their arrays like a banquet, glowing a heatseeking, evil red as they spotted the frightened, _terrified_ , warm, soft, fleshy onlookers. When the civvies on the Gold Coast retaliated, the omnics got someone who could speak on their level. Diplomats of war who, with their silver tongues--

Mako sees car headlights in the distance, hears the deep rumble of an engine that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention.

His vision of the omnium going up in flames fades. This is the worst time to think of it, but the quiet moments are usually when these thoughts strike. He needs to feel flesh tearing on his hook, needs to hear the tempo of Junkrat’s voice, needs to get into the complex footwork of battle. 

Needs to get this dumb deal over with.

And that’s how it usually goes. The wait is the worst, the painstaking calm before the storm that, frankly, he’d love to relive as much as he’d love to relive any essay he ever did in school.

He’s sitting next to the door, a window with some thick lace curtains giving him the most minimal view as the car parks far away. His mask makes it tough at night, he should really replace the lenses soon. He gives up trying to peer through a window the caravan can’t see through either.

They wait, it’s gut twisting, and they strike. That’s how usually it goes. But he hears the door slam, can feel the rust on the car’s frame rattle in his bones, a tactile thing, he knows that rust. Knows it as well as he knows those footsteps, iron toed leather with an all too familiar rhythm and jingle. At that exact moment, he knows this already unusual heist is going to take an even more unfortunate turn. 

Mako readiest his shotgun.

The plastic door swings open. An old leather jacket and old set of boots peek in through the bead curtain, wine colored and scuffed, patched up now with random bits of imitation leather, zero upkeep otherwise, drunken swagger, wild eyed look and a wild man’s hair, burnt skin and chapped lips and frizzy sunbleached hair, and _my God what’s_ _ **happened**_ _to him._

Roadhog takes aim just as the man opens his mouth. Begins to say some syllable or a consonant Mako would rather not hear and BAM, shards, bone, skin, blood, shrapnel, heat, beads, flesh, and brains go flying into the night. The figure staggers back and collapses into the dirt, the thud more deafening than his weapon.

Shotgun executions aren’t clean. It’ll kill a man, but Mako knows if he peers down, he’ll see a bloody indent in the face of a man he once knew, flimsily framed by his hair that no longer has a solid foundation to anchor itself to. Maybe the face gurgles like a weak fountain, maybe loose skin sits uncomfortably in the fleshy crater. His insides liquefy. It’s been a long time since death has horrified him, genuinely horrified him like this, but he doesn’t have time to worry about that.

“What the FUCK?!” Junkrat screams. Bullets whizz hot and angrily into the room, glass exploding on the walls and lighting aflame. Jonnie, until now a quiet player, loads her sniper rifle. Takes a shot, they hear screaming outside and briefly receive less hellfire. 

Junkrat runs to the window and Mako wants to stop him, but he doesn’t, just steps back. Junkrat gets in a few good shots, the earth rumbling and the house shaking as something goes up in a hot flash. He retreats, head turns violently to Mako, mouth opening and closing.

Light passes by Mako.

At some point it gets quiet again, on the outside anyway. The house is burning, that much they had prepared for, and the door is right there. But Junkrat stands his ground, facing Mako, staring Mako down, breathing heavily and hunched over.

“Roadhog, what the fuck happened to the plan?! We lead them on for a bit, and strike when their guards are down,” Junkrat breathes in, the air getting more acrid by the second and making him cough. “Who knows if they even have the money in their car! We woulda needed to twist it out of them, but now we can’t, because all of them are dead!”

“Boys, lets take this outside!” Jonnie says as she hops over the counter with her milkshake pitcher and trusty rifle.

“Those aren’t people,” Mako says, voice airy and rough as he chokes. Of course they’re people, but his tongue is confused and everything’s happening too much all at the same time. Junkrat no longer looks like a friend, and Jonnie takes aim as he approaches Junkrat all too quickly.

“You looking to sell me out? Mmm?” he pushes Junkrat against a wall, hook around his waist and shotgun to his head. Hot ashes drop from the ceiling as the supports shake. 

Junkrat is still too wild eyed and angry to be afraid, but it’s catching up to him. He gulps. Deep down, Mako knows Jonnie hasn’t taken a shot because she’s seen people act like this after the Omnium blew.

“Roadhog, I’ve got my rifle trained on you. Junkrat’s my friend, not you, so let’s step outside and talk this out instead.”

The house is burning down around them like the omnium burned down, but this is Jonnie’s home, not an omnium with its metal walls and winding halls. Jonnie is Junkrat’s friend, Junkrat is his friend, and Junkrat’s flesh nervously dances on, nervously presses against, the sharp nails of his hook. For once, he’s not trapped in a dense maze with omnics at every turn, the door being right by him.

Roadhog breaths in and out. Closes his eyes and swallows. 

He unhooks Junkrat, and his shotgun arm fall down by his side.

They walk out and hot tears pool in his mask.

-

Mako would like to be buried, have the earth six feet under be cold and refreshing and for the dirt they pile on him to feel like the soft kinetic sand he would play with as a kid. He could sleep in the earth, not die, just sleep for a while, drifting in the darkness and isolation of some impossible tomb.

But that’s not how life goes, especially not theirs. The sun and the oppressive heat dig their teeth into the Junkers' skins, sweat feeling like blood pouring down their backs. 

Mako can’t keep his feelings in the neat, conceptual cages that are words (“angry, confused, sorry, understanding, ultimately angry”) when everything courses through him like lightning and spills out of him and drowns him in ways he can’t wrap his head around or truly put words to. Those blocks of ice begin melting, the marble begins to crumble, the kettle boils over in a spectacularly quiet fashion, and he just watches it, too oversaturated, too redhot and fried to turn away.

He envies Junkrat. His words and his hands and his laughter always seems to catch up with his emotions. It seems cathartic. Maybe it isn’t, maybe it is. 

But for once, Junkrat is quiet. Jonnie drives for them, she’s heading to her new ranch. Mako has half of the money in his lap. The caravan was smart enough not to bring all of it.

“You’ll have plenty of nice furniture to sit on and contemplate life with,” Jonnie had told them. “Please don’t burn these down.”

They don’t choose the furniture, though. Jonnie pulls up into the driveway of the ranch, and they see a few nice rocks out in the shade that the house casts. The furniture looks too small and too clean for them, anyway.

They sit there, defeated. The minutes pass, and the Outback is as quiet as ever. They hear miscellaneous clattering from inside as Jonnie moves about. From time to time, bushland grasses sway from side to side. Otherwise, the air seems stagnant

“She wanted that place razed to the ground,” Junkrat says suddenly. Mako looks over to him, and Junkrat shifts around to better face him. His hands and pants are covered in red earth now.

“Too many bad memories, she’d tell me. When I came to Junkertown from The Arrays, Jonnie and I would do a lot of trap-style heists. Never at her house, but something always got brought back there. We hauled a lot of folks in who the bullets made swiss cheese of. Their stains are still all over the kitchen floor, I think.”

Junkrat looks out into the horizon. “Or, were. I’m gonna miss that jukebox safe, seeing it open always meant a good haul was gonna be stashed there. But I wouldn’t take the safe if it means taking all of the bloodstained floors too.”

Junkrat looks back at him. “Those are my thoughts on the matter. You feeling fine to talk, though? Only if… it helps, you know. I talk a lot because I like it, but sometimes it gets me lost and makes me feel lonelier.”

“Mhm,” Mako grunts. “Yeah, I’m fine to talk. I want to.”


	3. (on the rocks)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lovestruck dude.

Mako and Jamie look over the crater. It’s hollow, was hollowed out a long time ago, no evidence of the construction crew that came here. Jamie looks over at Mako’s nails, just briefly. They’re a bit twisted. Weren’t always that way, Jamie remembers painting them a sleek petroleum black when they first met. They were thick and straight back then.

But it’s fine, or it isn’t, he doesn’t know. He remembers the nails when they were hollow, blank, fleshy canvases, after something he tucks way back in a corner of his brain, or hopefully more like a pit, or a cavern, or Devils Hole in Nevada, a corner is still too close for his liking. 

Whatever. It’s smooth sailing from now on, the sea glinting like diamonds or particularly nice sand or whatever strange rocks cover the crater. He can relax. He wants to lick Mako’s nails to forget them when they were naked and raw, but he won’t. Relax, relax, relax.

“God, that was fucked up. Is this the first time we’ve been here since then?” Mako says, then laughs, would be solemn as it travels along the landscape, but it’s just him. Nothing more to it. The old man squints as he looks across the crater, and that respirator mask hangs on him. 

It’s a strange and ugly green. Jamie’s gotta ask if he can paint it.

“Yeah, I reckon it is. Hey, you need sunnies? Or some paint?”

“What?” Mako’s big old bushy white eyebrows scrunch up, one side raises up a bit, lips turn up too, in that way they do when someone’s confused but also about to chuckle.

“Yer squinting, and that mask of yours really doesn’t fit you. I know it’s temporary, but I thought you might want to liven it up a bit.”

“Oh,” Mako chuckles. Aha! Stops himself, oh. Starts heading over to the truck to grab something, maybe.

Doc must have told him not to chuckle too much, lest it interfere with the nanobots. No other reason Mako would cut a chuckle short. To hell with that, though! The technology’s good enough for a little bit of fun, Jamie reckons. Or maybe it isn’t. He feels bad now, making his Hoggy laugh like that. What if his lungs--

“You over there thinking?” Mako half-shouts. He’s hauling an esky and some bags over. 

“Yeah, it’s terrible!” Jamie shouts, and runs over to him so he can pull his weight. Ooh, nice, he’d forgotten Mako packed the markers. What’s in the box?

“I’m thinking about licking your nails and your lungs getting all gnarled up from laughing, it sucks. I want something else to think about.”

“Have some coffee, then. Coldbrew on nitro, my best stuff.” 

They plop the esky down and Mako unveils the coffee veeeeeeeeery ceremoniously... Canned too, wow! Fancy man. 

He’s very proud of what he’s accomplished here, and Jamie loves that. Mako’s a funny guy, Mako loves his coffee, and Jamie wants to cover him in kisses.

“I get it, though,” Mako says, roughly. “I want to be here. I want to… look at the horizon and know this is past us. I want to hop into the truck later and drive up to Junkertown and feel like… this meant something. Have it feel complete. But it’s still weird.”

Mako’s talking, and Jamie’s happy that he’s fine with doing that. It isn’t always good or comfortable or his style but if Mako’s happy opening the canned coffee with a satisfying crack, and saying whatever comes to mind as the hot summer winds roll over them, then Jamie’s happy too.

“I’m...” Mako frowns, does a little _harumph_. “You remember when we buried the treasure?”

“Yeah,” Jamie says softly, points out somewhere, over there, to the smaller crater in the preexisting crater. “Over there. We drove all the way here from Jonnie’s old place, with your bike. Had just finished building it in her garage.”

Oh, the markers. Jamie grabs one and begins weaving and waving it between his fingers like a seesaw or an acrobat. It’s yellow, so he tosses Mako a blue one.

“That was one hell of a week,” Mako says, uncapping the marker. He’s got some gray paper too, reflects the outdoor light less harshly, so he starts sketching something. Tattoo designs? They’re large. His eyesight is ok-ish, but text and fine lines need to be big. Good for Jamie right now, he’s enjoying the patterns Mako makes.

“But it was good too. I’m glad we got that over.” Mako mumbles, absently, in that weird but not necessarily bad tone the voice takes when it’s more focused on weaving things on a page. Nice, good.

“It’s like getting your wisdom teeth pulled out at the dentists,” Mako remarks. “Or turning a big paper in. Just necessary.”

Jamie recalls burying the treasure far down in the earth. Its tomb was cold, deep, dark, and far far down. After the week, Jamie wished he could have jumped in there too. Maybe it would be an infinitesimally small speck in their lives, a minor infraction amongst other minor infractions and ridiculously big successes, but at that moment, Jamie had really regretted the whole fiasco with the caravan.

Mako knew those people. Something about the Australian Liberation Front, something about traitors or old friends or old enemies that Jamie hadn’t prodded him further over. Mako hurt. Mako bled remembering those things and lost himself to the sands of time, so Jamie helped bring him back because he knew it was pointless to lose yourself to memories like that. Mako just told him about the chip instead. Told him they needed to bury it far away from anyone. 

Maybe they could sell it at a later date, but the price had to be higher, far higher, and the source had to be far more reputable. That’s what his Hoggy had told him, and when he finished, Jamie brushed the hair out of his face and kissed him. They always joked about their anniversary coming up, always joked about bickering like a married couple, but it was true. Jamie loved him, but he was always afraid because they’d only known eachother for a year, and love had always been a fiery, disgusting, uncomfortable feeling that made him sad and awkward and confused and a benched player, but they had found a sunroom between eachother in that desolate wasteland where very few people were large and loud and stupid with their words and emotions and covered in grime like they were, or laughed as hard as they did or hey, maybe they were both transgender, a strange and quiet fact that lived in the background the same way air does. Or not air, they’d still love eachother regardless, but it felt good. Important. He breaths in, mentally.

Jamie could see himself in the scars that flexed across Mako’s chest as he sent a hook flying, yes, Jamie could feel himself in Mako’s baritone laughter that was a bit inherited but also a bit learned. Just like that, Mako could see through Jamie’s skin and muscles and fat like rice paper or glass and gracefully know him to be who he was as they waited, no, hunted for a reputable cosmetic surgeon, and it was good. It was really fucking good.

Like cold water, or something even more fun, after awkwardly, after numbly, running through life not having a sunroom between himself and someone else.

Maybe kissing Mako was impulsive and stupid, but being impulsive and stupid had gotten him very far in life, possibly further than some other folks, and definitely to some more interesting places. It certainly had got him there, with their hungry flesh pressing against eachother, hot breath and needy hands wandering anywhere and everywhere, and it certainly had got him here.

Jamie absently, at first absently, then all too suddenly realizes he hasn’t even grabbed a coffee. Oh shit!


	4. Run with it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All about names. Vittoria Rutledge returns.  
> Sometimes you just have to see something good, hear something good, and run with it.

“I love it!”

Mako grins, widely. So does Vittoria.

“Mako, where’d you get that?” She asks.

Mako scratches his head. “Mm. A movie. Don’t know, it just popped into my head and it stuck.”

“That’s good. My mum said the same about my name, she saw it on a billboard a few weeks before having me.” Vittoria kicks back. Her phone’s new case is super nice, she bought it after she got her first paycheck from the coffee shop. 

Matte, dark black. Mostly serves to protect her collarbones when she drops it on herself in bed.

“I think that’s good. Seeing something good and running with it instead of thinking yourself down the wrong path,” Vittoria notes.

Mako makes a noise between a _mhm_ and a _yes_. 

“You know what, I wish I got to choose my name! That’d be cool!” She grins. “Oh man...”

“What’s... stopping you, though?”

Vittoria gasps. “You’re right! Well, I want it to mean something. If I get to do the honors, I want it to be a special occasion and a special name.”

Mako laughs. “Didn’t you just say it’s better to see something good and run with it?”

“Yeah, I did, you smartass." She playpunches him. "But I’m running with it. My gut feeling, that is. I’ll wait for that good name and that good moment to strike.”

"I... guess?"

In a roundabout way, it does.

-

The hollow noise of wind is in his ears.

Space.

Mako sits at the edge of the world. Eyre Crater is a vast expanse of nowhere and nothing and absolutely nothing until there’s something, like a hole or a nice natural pool or some scrap metal from an old Jeep that was left to die here. It’s all colors and light to him, though. He left his glasses in the car.

If Eyre Crater is a vast expanse, the rest of his life is the universe. He’s nervous. There’s nothing to be nervous about, but for the second time in his life, he has to…

He looks over at Jamie. Looks at the markers in his hands. Looks at the landscape.

It’s hard to explain. There’s no right or wrong in the rest of their lives, it seems. No imminent decision that has to be made, no killer game of chess with fast footwork and faster minds and faster hands and the first or second draw is the end of the battle or the end of their days. 

Just, life. Going on and on as it should for once, each decision just another draw from the deck, just another card for the pile.

For some reason that makes it all the more nervewracking. Just because it’s not imminent or obvious doesn’t mean it’s not there.

What is _it?_

He thinks about his plants at home. Heirloom tomatoes, sage, hanging vines, a collection of brush that could only exist in an America prairie. 

He thinks about Jamie, about Junkertown.

He thinks about Jonnie.

"Hey," Mako says. “Heard from Jonnie recently?”

“Yeah!” Jamie piques up. “She broke her foot, but otherwise she’s stellar. Some accident with the mechs she’s working with.”

Mm. Mako scratches his eyebrow. Mechs were never his favorite thing, but broken feet were a common enough occurence back in the Junkertown Scrapyard for it to not surprise him that much. 

“Wanna make the roadtrip up to her place next?" Mako asks. "It’s by Junkertown, and I know a good diner along the way.”

“Sounds good. I’ll help ya pack up here and I’ll give her a ring in the car.”

They hop up. Haul the esky and bags back to the truck, under the protective tarp full of boxes with paperwork and clothes and food and guitars and wrenches and cups and other strange things for friends back at Junkertown.

It floats, the truck. His old bike is in the garage back in New Zealand. This one is faster than the bike ever was, safer, speeding down the Greater Australian Interstate with nothing more than a light hum and a small plume of dust in its wake.

The truck is on autopilot.

At some point, Jamie puts on music. Makes a phonecall. The day is bright enough that the orange dust around them starts turning a blinding yellow and white. 

The cement isn’t an unnaturally fresh black like in New Zealand. It’s old, the dust dances and settles over it with no rain or people to take care of it. There's years and years of dust and tracks on it as the sun bakes it, bleaches it, until it reaches a boring gray that doesn’t stand out but also doesn’t blend in with the landscape.

No one’s bothered to replace it in the last 60 years, but at least it’s there.

Some of the potholes were patched up by well-meaning travelers. Maybe it was yesterday, and they were part of a budding organization trying to use Australian tax dollars to fix _every_ road, not just the inner city ones. 

Or maybe it was 20 years ago, and shortly after they were gutted in an ambush.

Things change.

Things change, he hopes.

The car drives north.

And things change.

 

The diner’s changed, that's for sure. For one, it only sells soft drinks now, and the owner must have gotten surgery to look a little more like his mother last he remembers her. Dark skin, graying hair, round around the waist but not as much as him, mostly because that's like saying someone's tall but not as tall as him. He can see her through the window. It's a fairly small place.

Mako expresses his confusion, but the joint looks nice enough. They hop out of the car with their wallets and peek in.

“Welcome!” Says the storeowner.

“Hey.” The door closes behind them with the leftover clatter of a bell. Jamison scampers around, _ooing_ and _ahhing_ as he wanders down a display of rainbow colored bottles.

 _A crate of 6 sodas for $600 dollars,_ a price that still sounds too large in his ears but is just the way the economy works. Always driving upwards, always increasing these arbitrary names and values that dominate their lives.

“Lots of drinks here. Anything from the area?” Mako asks.

“Straight to the point, I like it.” She reaches underneath the counter and pulls out something green.

“The girls back at Junkertown started a company called _The Good Apple_. Sales have been extraordinary, and I’m proud to have snagged a shipment. Sydney’s been drinking these up like there’s no tomorrow.”

Looks good. Mako calls Jamie over, and he inspects it like a box of chemicals for an experiment. Declares it very cool, and purchases it.

Someone comes in as they sit down and review some paperwork over a soda. Waves to them, says _Rat! Hog!_  

They chat about things, this and that, the weather, the dust, the new buildings, the sun.

The wind runs across the sand.

The sky hangs above them, blue and bright. 

Maybe it’ll never turn red and gold and dark.

“You boys from around here?”

The sky is getting duskier now. Lights flicker on outside. 

 _Mhm_ , they say in unison. “Grew up in The Arrays,” Jamie says, and looks over to Mako.

“I’m from Wellington. Moved to Junkertown in my early 20s. Live in Wellington now with Jamie.” He motions to the man in question.

 _"Wow_ , look at you two! What brings you back here, then?” The shopowner is checking the inventory, cleaning things, moving wooden crates around.

“Visiting some old spots.”

There’s a short pause as he thinks. Things change. He’s changed. People are kind and curious and Mako’s open to talking.

“Gonna head over to the foster agency. We do some relief work here, so we thought it was time to help a kid or two out.”

“Adopting, eh?” The shopowner says. Intuitive. “You should adopt my girl. Love her to bits, but she wants to get out. It's a big world out there that she wants to roam, but I’d want her to have some respectable folks keeping an eye out for her till she gets older.”

“I mean, I’ll teach your kid to handle fireworks safely, but if--” Jamie stops, and narrows his eyes. “Wait. That came out wrong. Sorry. I’ll help your kid get a respectable job fixing cars or developing photos or something.”

The storeowners laughs. “No, you’d be perfect for her! She runs around with those mech people. It makes me nervous. She says she’s going to move to Sydney and become the best Meka pilot there too. I don’t know if she’s the best here, but she’s good enough to stay outside all night for those fights and not look too sad about it the morning after.”

They all have a good-natured laugh over that. Some things never really do change.

They leave with a warm feeling in their hearts and a business card they’ll pin up in their kitchen back in New Zealand.

_Veronica's Room, a Carbonated Drinks Parlor._

 

And so they ride again. The truck’s on autopilot so they can eat their food. They were supposed to eat at the diner which is no longer a diner, but then they got caught up with other things, so they eat their spicy chicken ramen now and chastise eachother as they fling drops of hot broth on the seats and on their legs.

The truck floats to the side as it “avoids” a slow-moving truck. It’s an older model, strange to consider any floating car as being one of the “older models”, but for that reason it tends to be overly careful. 

That’s fine by them. A GPS and a sound system with an aux cord used to be optional, so he’s not going to complain if the car can get them to Jonnie’s on its own while they bicker about the noodles' spot on the Scoville Scale.

And so they drive through the night.

The road is long, and signs occasionally catch his eye as they reflect the headlights.

A bright flash. The endless road. The sea.

“Riptide,” Mako says suddenly.

“What?” Jamie's neck springs up and he makes a silly snorting noise. He was nodding off.

“Do you… like,” Mako stops for a second to collect his thoughts. “Do you remember choosing your name?”

“Like, Jamison? Or Junkrat?” He asks, still waking up.

“Junkrat.”

“Oh, yeah. I just thought Junkrat was cool. Why’d you choose yours again?”

“ALF thing. Handed down to me, sort of.”

“Mmm. Is this about the kid?” Jamie ventures.

“Yeah. Wasn’t sure if it’d be weird handing the kid a Junker name. Or nickname. I think I’m over the idea but it’s still something I like to think about.”

“You said Riptide, right? That’s aces, I like it. But you’re right, I don’t know if kids do the whole Junker name thing anymore. I hadn’t even thought about it.”

A short pause.

“Why Riptide, though?” Jamie asks.

“Mm. An old friend, dunno. It just popped into my head and it stuck.”

It’s quiet, not a bad silence, just the accidental thing they fall into when they ponder, and they’ve been together so long that they ponder at the same times.

The road returns again, but his mind doesn't drift anymore. Just sees into the black distance, some specks of light beginning to come into view.

“Hey," Jamie says out of the blue. Mako turns to him.

“You could draw me a really ferocious dingo with a gold sword and cape called Riptide if it’ll help settle your itch.”


End file.
